


Pride

by caricari



Series: Summer Omens [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Conflict Resolution, Crowley Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Living Together, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The horror of expectations, The tags make it sound deep but really its just fluff, and very on brand, communication porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26895916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caricari/pseuds/caricari
Summary: He looks so sincere and contrite, Crowley thinks, watching from a few feet away. Satan, it’s unfair. He’s even better at apologies… How could two creatures be put on Earth and pitted against one another with such advantages?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Summer Omens [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962562
Comments: 20
Kudos: 165





	Pride

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt six from asparkofgoodness's [Summer Omens prompts challenge](https://thetunewillcome.tumblr.com/post/623395804680470528/here-we-go-friends-now-ive-never-been-the). All works are set in the same timeline, written/drawn in under an hour, and less than 5k. The ones with good grammar are beta read by [ AJ ](https://www.instagram.com/theeyjayy/).

**.**

There is basil growing near the end of the garden, between the bay and bell peppers. Crowley had planted it after their first winter in the cottage, with visions of a thick crop by August, and it has grown to meet his expectations.

The first shoots pushed their way through in late spring - little twin leaves, which spread upwards towards the sun. As summer stretched, more leaves followed. Glossy green things that curved as they grew. And all the while Crowley watched and watered and pruned the weeds from around them, diligently.

He is good at that technical side of care. With plants. With Aziraphale. The technical stuff he’s always found easy. Seeking out furniture for their new home; making sure that the angel’s favourite wines are always in stock; knowing the best places to eat in every city they visit; Crowley is good at those things. He likes them, likes providing, likes doing. Even something as simple as bringing his friend cocoa in the afternoon brings him satisfaction.

Speaking emotion is another matter entirely. Crowley had never been much good at articulating his needs. He stumbles over the phrase ‘I love you’, outside of moments of passion. He can never find a place where it feels right, to fit such a sentiment into normal conversation. And it doesn’t help that Aziraphale is so good at that side of things…

Crowley’s angel is shy about plenty of things, (plenty of things that Crowley isn’t), but he is very, very good at speaking love. Crowley supposes he has a natural advantage. Angels are made to parse love - to put it out into the world around them. Sometimes, when Aziraphale is lost in a good book, or enjoying some aspect of his work, the air throughout the whole cottage shimmers with delight. Sometimes, in the mornings, Crowley wakes up to the sensation.

It is a wonderful feeling. Like walking into a room and finding rays of sunlight spilling in, through the window, catching in the dust and turning it sparkling. It is a feeling that is hard to describe, in human words. Overbright and mellow, simultaneously. Rich petrichor. Warm earth. Crowley cannot cannot get enough of it. He laps it up - just as he laps up all of the ‘I love you’s, and ‘my dear’s, and ‘darling’s that drop so easily from Aziraphale’s lips.

He has no compunction over accepting adoration, (covetousness is fitting, after all, for a demon). What he does worry about is the idea that his response could ever be equal. A demon, after all, is not made to love. Six thousand years of holding back make it hard to step forwards and Crowley was never forthright, to begin with. He is not good at accepting the softer parts of his nature. There is vulnerability, in showing those parts of himself to the world. There is the possibility of hurt - and, worse, of creating expectations that he might fail to uphold.

Sitting at the end of the garden, in the dappled shade of the bay tree, the demon prods at the basil plant.

His carefully tended crop is blooming. The leaves are large and glossy. The scent they’re releasing is rich and strong. Crowley could not have hoped to grow better. He doesn’t even feel the need to yell at them, to remind them not to backslide. They look good. And he’d achieve it the human way - down in the mud with his hands and a trowel.

He feels… Well, he _should_ feel proud but he keeps pulling back from it, shying away like a nervous animal. ‘Proud’ feels a lot like admitting investment - and that feels like vulnerability, and Crowley has never had much time for vulnerability.

Sucking at his teeth, the demon smoothes the dirt down around the base of the plant, watching the leaves sway in a breeze.

Aziraphale had once asked, (ever-so-tentatively), if his tendency to self-deprecate was linked to Falling and Crowley had been genuinely surprised. He supposes that the idea has merit, from an outside perspective. It would make sense if his hangups came from his trauma, but it is nothing so straightforwards, in reality. He has always been awkward about expressing himself. He has always been needy about belonging. He is sure that these traits are more to do with _why_ he became a demon, rather than a result of it.

Lifting one long finger, he touches the underside of a leaf, feeling a strange urge to dig his fingers in beneath the plant’s roots and tug it up - destroy it all in one fell swoop. He could do that, he thinks. If he wanted, he could just… end it. Throw this plant, this plant he has poured hours into, away into the compost heap, at the bottom of the garden. Not have to think about it any longer.

He turns his head, looks to the window of the cottage. The light is off, upstairs. Aziraphale has finished for the evening. He can hear the noise of pots and pans being moved around, in the kitchen. He’s probably thinking of cooking up another batch of his mediocre linguine. Courgette and prawn. What the fuck.

Crowley watches, feeling an odd mix of need and trepidation bubble through him.

They’d argued, earlier, about something stupid. Aziraphale had been bitching about him clearing up mugs from around the house.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. But they’re there, and I’m passing.”

“I said I’d get to them!”

“When? Tomorrow, next week… in several decades time?”

“Soon.”

“I’m on my way down, angel. I’ll just grab them. I don’t-,”

“Crowley, you don’t have to!”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It makes me feel like I’m…” Aziraphale had rolled his eyes, “not doing this right, or that think _you_ think that i’m not doing enough. And I know that’s silly.” He had given a heavy sigh. “I know that’s not what you intend, but it just… I… Oh, for goodness sake, will you just put them down? Please?”

And Crowley had thrown his arms up in defeat. Slouching off outside, he had committed himself to a three hour sulk along the little paths around the cottage.

He has been back in the garden for an hour, now, though. It is a halfway point to seeking contact, he thinks, pinching a leaf off the basil plant and pressing it into his palm. He wants to go back inside, but is not sure that he is ready. He is not sure that he has the words to hold his own in the inevitable confrontation. But he can’t stay out here forever, he reasons. The sun will go down soon and he doesn’t want it to look like he’s holding out on purpose. Satan forbid, he act so affected… Ridiculous, moody demon that he is…

Giving a soft growl at himself, Crowley squirms over onto his knees and prepares to get to his feet.

.

Inside the kitchen, a golden light is shining over a pristine countertop. The mugs are all clean, in a line, on the draining board. The kettle and toaster gleam.

Aziraphale stands with his back to the doorway, he belly against the cooker, a checked tea towel slung over one shoulder. He is humming to himself as he works - the tone slightly flat - and, though he clearly notices the catch of the door as Crowley pushes his way inside, he does not falter. It is a forced attempt at nonchalance.

Making his way over to the kitchen island, Crowley leans, back of his hips against the edge of the counter, watching. There is a certain amount of bravado involved in this moment between them. There always is. They do apologies the same way - in a manner engrained over sixty centuries. Crowley is always the first to speak and it will be something light and sarcastic.

He is just preparing to open his mouth when, to his total surprise, Aziraphale makes the first move.

Setting the tea towel down, the angel turns to face him.

“I’m sorry about the mugs.”

Crowley blinks.

“Oh.” He is taken aback. This isn’t usually how things play out. He doesn’t know what to do with it. "Right." 

Across the way, Aziraphale takes a steadying breath.

“I was being churlish,” he admits, quietly. “I had a list of things to do and that was at the very end of it and I was just-… Well, let’s just say I was not exactly receptive to you interrupting my plans.”

“You never are,” Crowley mutters, unable to stop himself. (There is a large, red self-destruct button at the middle of his mind’s control centre and it seems impossible for him to get through a conversation without smacking it at least once). “Uh, you know,” he clears his throat, moving to soften the comment with humour. “Wiles and thwarting, and all that.”

Aziraphale gives him a look which might be amusement or irritation - Crowley genuinely cannot tell.

“Well, I shouldn’t have snapped at you, regardless,” the angel continues, giving his hands a little squeeze against the rail behind him. “I take things over-personally, sometimes. You keep everything so exactly and I worry I don't meet your standards.”

“I never said-,” Crowley starts, pulling a face, but Aziraphale interrupts him.

“You’ve not said or done a single thing, to convince me of the idea, Crowley. It’s a nonsense of my own making.” The angel waves a hand. “One of those things that only bothers me if I’ve already got ten thousand things on my mind. Anyway...” he gives a little sigh. “I didn’t mean for it to be a sleight. I shouldn’t have snapped. I apologise.”

He looks so sincere and contrite, Crowley thinks, watching from a few feet away. Satan, it’s unfair. He’s even better at apologies… How could two creatures be put on Earth and pitted against one another with such advantages? 

Drawing bravado around himself, the demon slouches a little harder against the counter.

“It’s fine. It was just mugs, wasn’t it? Doesn’t matter.”

Aziraphale says nothing but continues to watch him, closely.

“Honestly,” the demon tries again, raising two fingers and drawing the sign of the cross in the air between them. “I absolve you of your sins.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…” Pushing himself off the counter, Crowley paces over, deciding proximity is the best way of avoiding his best friend’s gaze. “Listen, I accept your apology, alright? Let’s talk about something else. Here-,” he brandishes the leaves, brought in from the garden. “Basil. It was getting to bolshie for its own good. Had to give it a trim. Thought it might go in whatever you’re making.”

He holds it out.

“Oh.”

Aziraphale’s face splits into an expression of pure delight. There is a zing in the air, suddenly - the sensation of his love. Crowley laps it up. Drinks it in.

“Oh, these are _lovely_ , Crowley…” the angel takes the leaves and spreads them out in his palm, rubbing one between his index and thumb. The scent of the herb releases into the air, mixing with the otherworldly sensation of angel. “Goodness, I thought you were going to lose all the herbs, after that spate of aphids a few weeks back. However did you manage to get rid of them?”

“Picked them all off by hand,” the demon grunts. “It took fucking ages.”

“By hand?”

“Yup. Not a single miracle.”

“Miracle-free basil,” Aziraphale beams, turning the leaves over in his hands. “Well, I never….”

“Yeah, I’m pleased with it.”

The sentence hits the air sounding natural, but it isn’t. Crowley has to force it into being past reticent lips, with a reticent tongue. He is a few blood vessels short of a blush by the time Aziraphale looks up at him, fondness spilling across his features.

“So you should be,” the angel murmurs, after a pause. “You’ve done a marvellous job.”

Crowley does blush, at that - pride licking at his ribs. There is a little moment where the urge to say something sarcastic is overwhelming. Then, it dies back again.

“Thanks,” he bobs his head.

“The whole garden is flourishing.”

“Yeah, it looks good.” It’s not a boast. Boasting is easy. It’s a skill Crowley has cultivated over sixty centuries of demonic activity. This is something different. This is expressing satisfaction over something he has invested time and energy in - and the impulse to bite it back is huge. Letting himself feel it, letting Aziraphale _see_ him feel it, feels dangerous. “Think I’ll try tomatoes next summer,” he mutters, anyway. He’s always been one to double down.

Aziraphale’s smile stretches.

“That would be lovely.”

Crowley watches him for a long moment. Then, swallows. 

“Listen,” he begins. “The bit about the mugs…”

The contentment fades from the angel’s face.

“Crowley, honesty, I-,”

“No, hear me out.” The demon rolls his eyes, then drops his gaze to his best friend’s fingers, which are still tenderly holding the basil.

_I made that for you, he thinks. I made it for me, for us, for this life we have, together. I meant it. I did it on purpose. It matters to me that you know that. Don’t know sodding why, but it does…_

“You say things,” he manages, eventually, swallowing over the end of the words, “and you make it look easy. But… it’s not like that for me. I do things, instead. Thats… that’s what this is.” He gestures around. “The mugs. All that stuff. I’m not trying to say you’re a shit housemate. I just… like doing things for you.”

“I know that, dear,” the angel murmurs, pupils wide. “I have known that for a very long time.”

“Yeah, well, I know I’m supposed to say stuff, now, as well,” the demon mutters. “I know that’s how these things are supposed to work. It’s just-,” he throws a shrug, panic scratching at the back of his chest. “I’m working on it, alright? But I don’t always know what to say. The words don’t always match up, I guess… and I don’t know… It’s like I… I don’t-,”

“My dear?”

It is the softest of interruptions.

The basil is placed down on the countertop and Aziraphale’s fingertips are reaching out, touching the side of Crowley’s hip - but only his hip, because anything more would feel like pity, rather than reassurance, and Crowley would flinch away. Aziraphale knows that. Knows him. Has known him for a very long time.

Crowley’s heart rate slows, slightly. Even though he doesn’t quite look round.

“You’re not _supposed_ to do anything,” Aziraphale tells him, after a few seconds of calming silence. “There is no way we are supposed to do this. We’ve both been living in this world for six thousand years. We have habits and it is going to take time to adjust. I think that is okay…” The angel gives a flustered little smile - all pink lips and white teeth. “We’ve always rubbed one another up the wrong way, haven’t we? But we always figure it out. I wouldn’t change anything about us, dear,” he assures. “Not for all the effusive communication in the world.”

Crowley doesn’t speak. Can’t speak.

Aziraphale’s thumb is warm, at his side. His expression is soft.

“We’re okay,” the angel tells him, again, after a moment’s silence. “We’ll figure it out, won’t we?”

The demon lifts his eyes to the angel’s shoulder, peripherally aware of his best friend’s gaze, on his face.

“We usually muddle through,” he mutters.

“Yes.”

“Bickering, as we go…”

Aziraphale’s smile widens, a twinkle in his eyes. He gives Crowleys’ hip a soft squeeze.

“We are exceptional at bickering.”

“Mm... Best bickering this side of the fourth century.”

“Socrates?”

“Nah, Plato and his boy. Much worse.”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale pulls a face. “They did go on a bit, didn’t they?”

“A bit? They never fucking stopped.” Crowley pulls on a grin, his throat loosening. His voice is beginning to sound like his own, again. “All that posturing and the niche Pythagorean insults… Oh - and the wrestling, when the central argument went to shit. They were a nightmare!”

“We’ve been known to wrestle, too,” the angel reminds him, playfully. “On occasion.”

Crowley feels his cheeks tingle.

“Yeah, well…”

“We’re rather exceptional at that, too.”

His cheeks burn.

“Flirt,” he mutters.

“Only with you.”

The demon looks up to meet his friend’s gaze.

“Bollocks. You were flirting with Mrs Davenport, down at the market, just last week. Don’t try and deny it.”

“She is eighty nine, Crowley.”

“Exactly - she’s far too young for you.”

“It made her afternoon.”

“You just like they way she calls you ‘ _young man_ ’.” Crowley hams up the accent, for effect, and his angel smiles.

“Maybe I do.”

“She’s wrong about both.”

“Hm?”

“‘Young’ and ‘man’.”

“Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

“Nnh.”

They watch one another, Crowley feeling decidedly warm inside. Then, Aziraphale gives a little sigh and steps forwards, pressing up onto the balls of his feet to kiss him.

The inside of Aziraphale’s top lip is, perhaps, the softest part of him, the demon thinks, as their warm cheeks brush. The bit just below the folded edge of his cupid’s bow. It is skin that has had no business being exposed to the world, apart from the moments when it is placed against Crowley’s hand, or his belly, or his inner thigh. It feels like a stolen thing, when Crowley gets to touch him there. It feels like a gift, to press like this - again and again - softly, softly, until their bodies relax together and, one of his hands slides forwards to curl around his best friend’s elbow.

It is comforting. Lovely. Perfect.

“I don’t like it when we row,” Aziraphale says again, nudging his nose into his cheek. “I never have. I used to tear myself up something dreadful about it. Even in the early days, when I thought that was what we should be doing.”

Crowley exhales, low.

“We were never much good at the opposition bit, were we?”

“We always caved and made up.”

“Mm…”

“We’re much better at this.”

“And wrestling,” Crowley points out, feeling his friend’s cheeks tighten in a grin.

“We muddle through.” 

“Ay! Fuck off…” Straightening up, he nods towards the hob, where whatever Aziraphale had been working on is miraculously not-burning behind them. “What are you making?”

“Oh!” The angel brightens, giving a little bounce as he turns and reaches for the pot, tilting it back to check the contents. “It’s that recipe I’ve been working on - the linguine. I think I’ve improved the sauce. You like garlic and lemon, don’t you, darling?” He asks, casting a look back over his shoulder.

Crowley watches him.

“I like you,” he says and, for once, it doesn’t feel off. "So fucking much." 

Aziraphale looks surprised but delighted. He blinks twice, lips parting slightly and then curling into a wide smile. Then, catching himself, he makes a prim little readjustment and turns back towards the countertop.

“Well.”

He seems to know that Crowley needs him not to say anything more, or address the moment directly. Instead, he fusses around his simmering sauce - picking up the pepper grinder and fiddling with the top, adding a bit, making a great show of the movements. He is clearly trying to look calm, but Crowley can see his smile from behind, now. It is so wide that it has thrown a delta of lines around his eyes.

“Bloody hell…” He mutters, stepping forwards to press his front against Aziraphale’s back.There is a relief in giving in, in submitting to a moment. Even if it also feels strange, and anxious, and loaded. “That’s it. I think you’ve broken me.”

His friend gives a little ‘huff’ of laughter, hands stilling against the stove as he bows his head, smile growing even wider.

“A broken demon,” Crowley continues.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic…”

Dipping forwards, Crowley brushes the tip of his nose against his friend’s neck. Aziraphale’s skin is very warm there - the collar of his shirt loose. He must have undone his tie during the afternoon, Crowley thinks. It will be sitting upstairs, neatly folded on the side of the dresser, where he has a little tray where he keeps his pocket watch and his ring.

There are little details about this life that they live, that Crowley could not have imagined, given six million years; the tray upstairs, and the basil in the garden, the shape of their little kitchen and the sofa where they spend their evenings slung across one another, indulging in proximity.

He could never have imagined what a comfort it would be, just to hold himself against another creature and be accepted there. He could never have expected to find himself feeling strongest in a moment of exposure. He has spent lifetimes of man equating vulnerability with weakness - trying to prune the practice from the shape of him - but, now, standing against his best friend, he is fairly sure that their ability to admit need is the only reason they are both alive.

He remembers Aziraphale on the tarmac of that airfield - choosing a side, asking for help, needing him to do something.

 _I’ll do anything for you_ , he thinks. _Anything_.

He pours the thought into movement, into the way he slides a hand around his friend’s chest. Aziraphale leans into it for thirty seconds or so. Then, he sighs softly, and half turns his face.

“Can I borrow your hands, a minute?”

“Anytime,” Crowley smirks.

“There are some onions that need chopped.”

“Oh.”

“And this basil, too, if you want it?”

The angel looks up at him.

The demon sighs.

“Nnng’yeah… alright.”

Dinner might even taste better with a little basil and demonic miracle thrown in, he thinks, giving his friend a squeeze and sliding away, to fetch a knife and some onions from the other end of the kitchen. You never know.

“And grab a bottle from the rack, while you’re back there?”

“The Stellenbosch?”

“Ideal.”

And the night passes on.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me lurking on [IG](https://www.instagram.com/heycaricari/), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/heycaricari), and [Tumblr](https://heycaricari.tumblr.com/) @heycaricari


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